


To Sense the Forgotten

by Lutea (Lucania)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:39:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1829830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucania/pseuds/Lutea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He steps off the greyhound as the sky hovers between night and day, headphones half on as he searches for the source of...whatever it is he's been feeling for the past month. He shoves his shoulders into a squared position and walks away from the station towards the distant outline of the forest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There's a Something

There’s an asshole on the bus. Not that he’s a person to judge a book by its cover, but if it weren’t for this sunglasses-wearing douche canoe with giant headphones blasting music, he’d be curled up on a stiff motel mattress, sleeping like a baby.

From the bouncing driver’s seat, the man glances for the umpteenth time at the reflection of the teenager in the back-seat. Four hours. Four hours of driving with nothing to listen to but some ass-hat’s static-sounding music and the creak of the bus. The man returns his eyes to the rapidly moving road before him, illuminated by the occasional street-light and his high-beams. He didn’t particularly mind driving so late, hell, he’d always had an off-kilter sleep schedule. But he was driving one piece-of-shit kid who hadn’t even bothered with a “hello” when he got on the greyhound. Just a straight beeline to the back. _At least he has the common decency to not put his feet up_ , he thought darkly, muttering at the memory of the soccer team from Washington. He’s not sure if it’s a generation gap or what, but the kid looks homeless, over-sized print-shirt and all. _Doesn’t smell like shit though_ , the man amends as he fails to crack his neck. With a knot in his back and stiff muscles, he feels the relief kick in from finally seeing the saving grace of his night.

_Beacon Hills 4 miles_

* * *

 

There’s a dickbag on his property. Wiping his dusted brow, the man looks up from his slowly-progressing garden and closes his eyes. He focuses, past the sound of the returning birds and the rustle of fallen leaves and crackling branches. The steady heart-beat of _somebody_ is found quickly, deeper in the forest, but definitely still trespassing.

“Who the hell wakes up this early to walk in the woods anyways”, he mutters with irritation as he throws off the well-worn leather working gloves and begins to make his way towards the intruder. In his absence people have forgotten the boundary between the preserve and his home, a matter he’s tried to bring up with Sheriff Stilinski regularly. That along with hunters- regular hunters looking for deer- ruining his carefully planned marks for fencing that had taken a month's worth of budgeting.

Leaving his paint-smelling home behind, he makes quick work of getting closer to the rhythmic thrum of the person’s heart-beat. The winding stone path he had laid last week rises from the cleared forest floor, but as he travels further away from his labor-filled renovation, the smooth stones disappear and are replaced by shrubbery and fallen leaves. His once peaceful morning has become annoying and cacophonous.

The noise of the forest dies down as he steps into a painfully familiar clearing. The barren opening before him leads to the stump of what was once the largest tree of the forest, _Nemeton_ , he reminds himself. Once upon a time, thick branches too heavy for their own weight swept across the expanse of dirt while younger branches crawled across the sky and almost blotted out the sun. But that was before his time, even before his mother’s time.

Now the dirt is cracked and broken, caving into unseen holes and unsafe ground. A fact that lends to his surprise when he locates the source of the heart-beat. He sees the back of a teenager- and it’s definitely a teenager, who else wears backpacks- a few inches away from the stump, a pair of over-sized headphones nestled around his neck.

“This is private property,” he growls as the memory of two other teenagers skitters across his mind. An event that led to a pack being made, destroyed, and made again. Instinct inside of him rolls uncomfortably as he hears the teen whisper, “Derek Hale.” The forest around them crackles in excitement as the teen cranes his head upwards, a pair of sunglasses slowly making their way into his right hand. The once peaceful quiet of the forest turns eerie as an unseen force makes its way through the clearing.

The air grows thick as Derek searches his surroundings, fangs and claws threatening to lengthen as a warning growl emits low from his throat. His posture quickly shifts into a more coiled position, one foot in front of the other and arms tensed at the thought of another supernatural what’s-it to deal with.

A boney hand rises above the head of the teen and freezes in place. Derek hears the slow intake of a breath and the once steady heart-beat turning erratic and deafening in the unnatural silence. The smell of pain and anxiety wafts close as the teen lets out a breath and moves their hand down in a smooth, caressing motion, tracing grooves and bumps that Derek knows aren’t there.

The forest seems to sigh and the air clears as soon as the teen drops his hand. Birds return to their singing and a fresh breeze blows through the forest and clears the air that was once thick with emotion and inner turmoil. The teen quickly moves the sunglasses back to his head and turns to do a reluctant wave, all jutting limbs and ill-fitting clothes.

“Sorry about that, man,” he stutters, “But the noise of that thing was driving me nuts.”’ His face is open and spotted with freckles or moles, eyes hidden behind large, black sunglasses. Derek forces himself to relax and retracts his claws, uncertainty heavy and untrusting as it circulates through him. He voices the one concern in his mind with a gruff, “The hell are you?”

The teen shuffles in place before walking clumsily through the tangled roots of the nemeton, readjusting the worn-out strap of his bag with a sigh.

“If I had a dollar…” he murmurs with a smirk. As he lifts his face up, Derek watches the teen’s mouth drop into a shocked expression. The hand casually holding his backpack strap clenches as he stiffens in uncertainty. He angles his face up and sideways, looking at Derek from different angles, before he hesitatingly pulls off his sunglasses to give Derek a sideways glance.

Derek is reminded of the days when he used to dig along the shore of the lake near his home. He would find the tips of large rocks or pebbles and work clumsy fingers through the gritty ground to pick them up and watch them splash. These were days before he had full control, before he was allowed outside of the forest. Simpler times, when, on occasion, he would find deceivingly large rocks and try to scratch his way through the dirt, uncovering more and more earth as once small rocks revealed their true density hidden beneath layers of soil.

It’s the same with the teen’s eyes, a sight that has his feet realigning and his own head leaning forward in mimicry. Extending out from both of the teen’s eyes are angry scars spiraling around haphazardly, as if someone had used a knife instead of fingers to dig around eyes instead of rocks. He watches as a familiar golden glow illuminates out of their sockets, trained on images near Derek. _Not a werewolf_ , he realizes as he follows the line of sight to empty space around him. When he turns back around, the sunglasses have returned, and the same easy-going expression is back on the teen’s face.

“Let’s just rewind a bit, okay?” The teen forces out an awkward laugh and issues a mock-salute with his free hand, adding, “My name’s Stiles.”


	2. Nowhere to Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It didn't go as planned, chatting it up with the supposed guardian of the forest. But the buzzing noise and the feeling of something pushing down on him is gone. And really, what else can he ask for?

When he opens the door there’s a guy about his age who looks like he spent the night at an indie concert. Smudges of dirt, both wet and dry, litter his clothes and part of a long bruise peeks out of his sleeve, as if he landed too heavily on his left side. The heavy scent of the forest lingers over him, masking over the faint musk of something old and mildewed.

“Hi, my name’s Stiles. Derek told me I should talk to you instead of him. Do you have anything I could eat?” The stranger speaks urgently; face expressive behind the shade of black sunglasses.

He mulls the words over a bit too long, but it’s a Saturday morning, and visions of cherub lips and blood aren’t too far behind him. The sound of shuffling feet snaps him to alertness as he responds, “Uh, yeah, come in.” He side-steps to open the door wider and looks behind him to see his brother analyzing the situation with a calculating expression.

One eye-brow is up on the carefully blank face, thoughts hidden behind a well-practiced mask. “Who’s this?” Isaac finally asks as he begins to leisurely descend the stairs. It’s his forced air of indifference, a shield that he uses to protect himself. At least, that’s what Scott thinks.

Their guest adjusts the worn strap hanging over their shoulder and replies, “My name’s Stiles and I haven’t eaten in 7 hours so I’m going to eat some of your food.” Scott firmly locks the door with the feeling of regret sinking deep into his mind as Stiles adds “Also I’m here to talk to your alpha.”

He tenses. It’s only natural. In the grand scheme of things he’s been human for most of his life. Werewolf living was certainly new to him. The productivity of his heightened senses still had yet to be utilized. But the fact that he was a true alpha…He had a strong moral compass and a good sense of strategy, but an alpha, leader of werewolves, he was not. He glances at Isaac quickly, notes his slack-jawed expression and longs to have a good night’s sleep where supernatural shape-shifters are just figments of his imagination.

“Better safe than sorry”, Stiles cheerfully comments as he points left and finishes, “Kitchen’s this way?” They pause as he effortlessly passes between them and heads straight to the back of the house. Scott notices that his bag is well-worn and has small specks of bark on and imbedded in the fabric. He looks towards Isaac once more and they share a silent moment of unease.

By the time the two of them follow behind, Stiles has already pulled out the leftover Chicken salad from the refrigerator. He feasts animatedly from the plastic Tupperware container, elbows resting on the counter-top as he inhales food down. His sunglasses hide the fact of whether he’s looking at his food or the two boys staring at him.

There are conflicting feelings. On one hand, Scott remembers the last time they dealt with a teenager who had a hand in supernatural-related deaths. He drowned to death. On the other hand, Stiles hasn’t lied about anything he’s said. He makes up his mind, albeit reluctantly, and prompts, “You mentioned Derek?”

The teen quickly wipes their mouth with the back of the hand and laughs, “Yeah. I think he just wanted to get rid of me though, really grumpy guy, isn’t he?” He sets down the container of food and searches cupboards, adding, “He said that even though he was a Hale he wasn’t in charge of the place anymore.” A soft noise is made in the back of his throat as he pulls out a glass and quickly fills it with water from the sink, gesturing to Scott and Isaac, “So technically I have to talk to your pack now.” Everything he does is telegraphed a few seconds before it’s done. Carefree, loud, a mystery, that’s what he is at face value.

“Talk to us about what?” Isaac questions as he tilts his head back, eyes trained on the teenager now chugging water. His hair sticks to one side of his body, a rumpled mess confirming that it’s way too early for anything supernatural.

He gestures with his fingers as he gulps down the rest of the water and replies, “You know, permission stuff, let you guys know I’m here, I come in peace, yadda yadda.” He shoots the container back and swallows the rest of the contents eagerly. If he didn’t know any better Scott would say he was moments away from licking the container clean. He sees a flash of discoloration under the sunglasses, but the glimmer is gone as the famished teen tosses the container into the sink.

There was something strange in feeling such a lack of tolerance to someone his age, but he shook his head and asked “What are you then?”

He vaguely hears the teen mutter the words ‘two dollars’ under his breath as he looks at Scott in the face and confidently replies, “Fuck if I know, I just follow the rules.” To what extent did his lack of knowledge reach? He’d have to consult Lydia and her digital bestiary when he got the chance.

“I’m like you guys, but I’m not a brawns guy,” he clarifies. “I’m more of a figure-out-why-stuff-is-happening guy. If you need help with anything like that, just find me. I’ll be in town for a while, not sure if I’m staying yet though.” He swipes his mouth a few times with his fingers as he walks out of the kitchen. Closer, he realizes the mildew scent is accompanied with the remnants of a feeling. Something sharp but unplaceable.

Scott reluctantly follows and asks, “Even if something happens, even if we do need you to do…whatever, how will we find you?” before stopping in front of the teen and the door. He’s beginning to understand why Derek kicked him and Isaac off of his property when shit had started to hit the fan.

“Well I asked Derek if I could stay at his place for a while,” the teen ruminates out loud.

Isaac stifles a snort as the teen finishes, “but he slammed me against a tree and threatened to rip my throat out in my sleep if that happened.” Scott no longer feels shocked about anything Derek does. “So I’ll probably be bumming it in the abandoned mall. Or abandoned train-station, whichever is more accommodating.” There’s a smile playing on his lips, as if he was laughing at his own joke.

“So if we need the help of a homeless teenager we know where to look.” Isaac comments dryly, arms folded across his chest.

“Well at least someone’s got a sense of humor.” Stiles retorts with a dramatic roll of his body. His gaze looks past Isaac into the living room, and it happens quickly. There’s a flash of light behind the glasses and a rushed intake of breath.

He’s out the door with a quickly yelled, “Thanks for the food,” before Scott can ask what just happened. He bemoans his life. Wants to go back to the days where his asthma was the most difficult part of living, when he was a nobody and only had one friend.

Isaac watches their surprise guest leave from the door and slowly says “Derek’s not pack.” He pushes the door shut with one hand and makes a thoughtful noise.

“What makes you say that?” Scott asks. Derek isn’t the easiest to get along with at times but he’s been teaching him things, skills that usually would take a long time and a lot of irreversible mistakes to even know about. He can only imagine how much of it was learned because of recent events.

The teen puts his fingers in his back pocket and shrugs with his shoulders, “Well…Stiles said he had to talk to ‘our’ pack now. And if Derek kicked him out that means he’s not ‘our pack’. Right?” The guise of indifference is gone. Isaac, quiet, sarcastic, his best-friend, is back to normal. Back to saying things that leave heads being scratched or cringes being had.

“Derek is pack,” Scott replies firmly. “He’s just not the alpha anymore.” Maybe he was never meant to be an alpha. Maybe both of them weren’t. But he has the title now, he has the red eyes. He has the responsibility.

“I’ll talk to Deaton about this…Stiles. I’ll figure out what I can, maybe see if Lydia’s heard anything.” he decides. Isaac shrugs again and muffles a yawned, “Suite yourself,” before ambling back into the kitchen.

He needs better pack-mates. Definitely needs better pack-mates. He looks towards the living room in the general direction that Stiles was looking and steps into the room. There isn’t much to look at, certainly nothing to cause a sudden spark of supernatural power. Sofa, television, coffee-table, pictures old and new of family events.

“Pretty sure there isn’t any mountain ash in here,” he mumbles before yawning and cursing the early hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to make chapters longer. Hey so what was more confusing, chapter 1 or the season premiere?  
> If there are typos let me know. I don't have beta-readers (or whatever they're called) and usually I write whatever's posted the day of.  
> Please comment more I genuinely don't know if this is good or not. Kudos are appreciated though.


	3. High Pressure, Clear Skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn't plan for this. There was no pep-talk or list that would've ever made him prepared for this. But he was here, body protesting at his sorry state, and he was going to commit to it.

The word “old” rises from the depths of his thoughts at the sound of the front door opening and closing. A wave of the “old” hits him, a static cloud of air that snaps at his head and tingles down to a single hair on his knuckles. He stops and asks his instincts why “old” as he carefully walks out to the front of the clinic. “Old” described darachs and druids, the Nemeton, the ancient ones described in fairy-tales with lessons on ethics and morality. “Old” was given to those who endured, who suffered and lived to tell the tale, undaunted and unflinching of their future. It did not belong to the strange charged sensation he felt, nor the sight that stood a foot away from the walls of his fortress.

The boy he sees can’t be any younger than Scott, though he’s certainly less well kept than his star employee. The teen seems to perk up at the sight of him, shoulders lifting as the word “old” is replaced with the word “new”. “New” like turned wolf, a banshee, a child. “New” like the rising generation of supernatural, come to replace the “old”. With his lingering thoughts, he gently touched the edge of the small gate separating the waiting room and the back and asked, “Is there something I can help you with?”

  
“Deaton, right? Alan Deaton?” The teenager tilts his head forward, lips curved upward into a smirk, like every other cocky teenager in town. As if a boy no older than twenty could be confident enough to know he holds more secrets than any living person in the vicinity. “New”.

  
He assess, for a moment, records. A quick catalogue of movements, behaviors, appearances, and compares it to everything he’s ever learned, seen and known. He manages to narrow down his suspicions to a few names as he asks, “Is there something I can help you with?”

  
“In a manner of speaking. I mean- wait, rude, really rude, actually.” The boy laughs haltingly, taking a step back from the gate as he casts his head about the room rigidly. He takes a deep breath through his nose and continues, “I’m Stiles. I was wondering if you could give me the run-down on a few things.” He looks back with a softened expression, almost hopeful, borderline innocent. Genuine. The strap on his back is shifted, and the man sees him at face value clearly. As clearly as he can see, in any case. “Old” does not mean “all-knowing” or “skilled” or “better”.

Throwing caution to the wind, Deaton opens the gate and gestures deeper into the clinic with a reply of “I’ll try my best.”

 

* * *

 

The feeling comes first, urging him to turn, step, move, any faster than he already is. Worry settles into the pit of his stomach as he pushes past the scents of uncertainty and fear. The grip on his helmet strap reminds him: stay calm, rooted, breathe. Nevertheless, he impulsively shoves the door open, rougher than needed, and apologizes quickly to his occasional mentor.

  
“Sorry, I…What happened?” He steps closer to the metal table, eyes quickly assessing the lack of…anything. No struggle, no blood, no wounds, no other body. Same-old, same-old.  
Deaton, eyes cast and hazy, deep into his own thoughts, resurfaces and breathes, “Ah, Scott.” He watches as the man collects himself, and finishes, “You don’t work Saturdays.”

  
How could he forget that the man was the master of all deflections? The man who avoided any mention of supernatural creatures by spouting words like “money” and “raise”, who worked at his own pace, and more often than not, in secret.

  
“I needed to ask you…First, what happened?” He sets his helmet on the table, silver against silver, as he takes quick, discreet sniffs of the room.

  
Poised and calm as ever, Scott watches his boss turn towards the windows in deep contemplation. He wonders for a moment how quickly the man thinks, what scenarios go through his head, every possible cause and outcome of everything that he’s ever had to stop and consider, for the sake of Beacon Hills or duty. A whisper says that Alphas should do the same.

  
“I had a visitor come in and ask a few questions about the situation here. I believe he won’t cause any trouble, but, if he does…” Deaton stops and turns to face him, an expression of concentration on his face that highlights his wisdom and struggle. Makes him wonder why he never shares that wisdom.

  
The scent is familiar: wood, he decides. Wood, and mud, and…Stiles. “If he does,” he starts, “you know how to stop him, right? Because you know what he is?” he asks impatiently. He hopes for a simple answer, a straightforward “Yes, Scott, I do know what he is, and I do know his weakness, no need to worry, here are all the answers you seek.” Then again, if he did get such a response, he’d be worried he wasn’t talking to the real Alan Deaton.

  
The man stops and considers a thought once more before shaking his head and walking past the anxious teen. “Enjoy your Saturday off, Scott. There’s no need to worry about someone who announces so plainly that they’re here, in broad daylight, at that.”  
Scott watches him go, along with a wavering scent that he manages to identify and label. The muddled pin-prick of surprise. He recognizes it from when he broke through the mountain ash barrier. A noise jolts him from his confusion and he paws at his jacket to retrieve his cellphone.

  
_Lydia: Migraine free now, thanks for asking. But no, no unusual shrieking. I went out for a jog, studied some archaic Greek, got milkshakes with Kira. Are you done with my history notes yet?_

  
He groans and pockets his phone once more. True Alpha or not, he was still a high-school student, with high-school student problems. There was Alpha, Beta, Omega; a mantra that flew through his blood now, coursed through every bone of his body. But there was also college applications, passing classes, and dating. Normal, simple problems, he thought, as he grabbed his helmet and rolled its weight in his hands.

  
Deaton was unconcerned and, on a supernatural level, Lydia felt nothing. Stop worrying and study notes? Or head out to the preserve, hope for actual answers? As he stepped out of the back of the building, sunlight flared down and he thought of Deaton’s words again. The norm was that the enemies of Beacon Hills came with the rolling thunderclouds or rise of the moon, or both. It was as if inconvenient weather followed inconvenient people, or groups of people. But there was no real point in thinking about coincidences, not when their enemies were always surprising them at every corner.

  
It explains Deaton’s reactions, he muses as he revs his engine and pulls out of the parking spot. Siting at the main road, rumble of machine beneath him and before him on the road, he thinks clearly of stone and brick in ruin, replaced with a fresh coat of paint and the empowering smell of dirt and grass. He takes a right out, follows the road to the next stop light and takes a left, straight towards the line of the forest and cliffs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey it's been a while, like a long while. Sorry. Don't expect regular updates at this rate. At this point I realize this fic is way off canon.


	4. Pins and Needles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He got more information out of the druid than both of the werewolves combined. Not that the true-alpha gave him anything, it was more of a courtesy visit and less of an interrogation.

She feels him before she sees him. In the back of her mind, like her mother’s whispers to her when she was a child, soothing away the nightmares of a malevolent sea-witch with calm reassurances. She never listened. At least, not to her mother. It was a different voice that reached her, that soothed her mind into a numbed sleep of incandescent bubbles and cherry-red curls.

Throughout the day his presence comes and goes, unique enough for her to take note, but not enough to be any different from the other voices. The man somewhere in Texas has a soft texture and gives surprisingly good advice on lethal herbs. The woman located somewhere in North Africa, most likely Libya, has a rougher, more urgent tone, and is a constant murmur of conversation to the dead in her town.

She compiled a list once, updating it twice a day with the new voices she heard or editing pre-existing ones. It spanned over thirty pages on her computer, but that was before the semester long run-in with the darach, back when she was starting to get a semblance of normalcy in her life.

In any case, his presence was ignored, along with the other whispers that crept by her in passing. They were “others”, like people walking down the street, with no real substance or matters of importance to her.

Not that there were people walking the streets of Beacon Hills. It was the suburbs, anyone who wanted to get anywhere conveniently drove places.

It’s only when she’s an hour deep into re-translating the bestiary for shits-and-giggles that the whisper of _Lydia_ stops her mid-sentence. Her reference textbook on archaic Latin nearly falls to the floor as she pushes away from her translating to focus on anything that might help her hear. In a mild panic, she feels for her phone on her desk and manages to unlock it, thoughts racing against itself as it reminds her to calm-down and call Scott.

It’s only when the he whispers _outside_ as her thumb hovers over the phone icon that she stops and looks up. With care, she eases a deep breath in and turns to shuffle towards her window. Outside, underneath the mid-afternoon light, stands a disheveled looking teenager with an unnecessary pair of shades on. He waves, seemingly jovially at her, before pointing down.

She pivots her body away and presses herself against the nearby wall. Murmurs, she can deal with. The occasional helpful, if unsolicited advice, from a like-minded individual? Acceptable, if not a bit irritating when the hours are inconvenient. Someone she can hear with the clarity of a phone-call? Very much a hazard to her sanity.

_You: There’s a teenager outside of my window that I can hear._

Thumb pressing firmly on the lock button, Lydia silently hopes that Scott can provide any sort of answer as she rigidly makes her way downstairs towards the front door.

The others have quieted, as if the sudden clarity of one voice drowned out the rest. Her head is unnervingly quiet as each step she takes sends the stairs into fits of creaking. By the time she makes it to the bottom, a useless text message has been sent to her.

_Scott: Stiles. Derek says he trusts Deaton’s judgement._

The moment she locks her phone again is the precise second where she solidifies her distaste in anymore mysteries and unknowns. She deftly unlocks her front door, wrenches it open, and unflinchingly looks the teen in the eyes and demands, “What do you want?”

The teen throws his hands up into the air with a flinch, yelping, “Just a moment of your time and your skills,” Turning his head to the side, he mutters “We’ll go with the word “skills” for this, all right, whatever.”

He’s going to have to do better than that, she decides, as she points a finger threateningly in his direction and snarls, “Explain.”

His hands slink down as he huffed, “Well the short-story is that I need a banshee’s skills to help the situation here. The long-story is…really long. Significantly longer than anyone would like to hear. Or tell.”

“And I’m supposed to help you because…?” Lydia argued, arms crossing elegantly before her as she deftly ignored her phone’s alert noise.

“Look, don’t act like I haven’t already helped,” he shot, “For me, it was this constant pressure over my head, as if a ton of bricks was constantly just grazing me every second.” Arms punctuating his words, he continues, “Not to mention the ringing in my ears anytime I thought of ignoring it.”

 “Now, I don’t know what it was like for you, maybe it manifested into incoherent babble, or a pressure against your skull. But I got rid of it, okay?” He stops and seems to consider his words for a moment before finishing “Temporarily, but…I tried. And I’m still trying.”

“Are you a banshee too, then?” she asked quietly, eyes roving far away from the person in front of her. The fire that burned her to fight has drained once more, leaving her tired of hearing things that aren’t. A mild pressure builds behind her eyes and she shuts them closed.

She hears him sigh, “No. But…I’m not that far off from you. Listen, I just…I’m not good at this team-work thing, okay? But apparently I have to get used to it, because no matter what I’ve tried...”

The migraines did go away. The ones that had left her gasping and reeling for a month. They came to her, on-and-off, every hour, leaving her shuddering in the comfort of darkness and silence. Now they were minor things, head-aches, really, that left as quickly as they came.

“I know,” she acknowledged. “It’s still there. It’s better – you made it better, but, you’re right. The solution was temporary.”

“It’s because you’re one of the closest. Other people I’ve encountered had no clue what I was talking about, but…I’ve been here before. Within the nemeton’s influence. Apparently that’s enough of a relation for it to affect me.”

She opens her eyes and, for a moment, she sees him the way she heard him. A confused teen, tentative, as if every step he took would be his last. And then she seems him more, hears the whispers behind him and the name that Scott gave him. Behind the façade of flesh and bones, she sees Stiles and understands. She wonders if he sees her the same way. She jumps at the sudden buzzing in her hand and skillfully unlocks her phone.

_Scott: Derek thinks he’s looking for information, but I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing._

_Scott: Wait, you can hear him?_

_Scott: Lydia, are you safe right now?_

She quickly texts a response and mused, “You know I’m not good at this stuff either, right? Don’t get me wrong, public school has prepared for teamwork to an extent. Grasping all of this, though…” She gestures to the two of them and smirks, “I’ve got next to nothing to bring to the table.”

“But there’s a table, right? We’re…You’re going to help me…help?” he finishes lamely.

She can see what convinced Deaton, Derek, and even Scott, that the kid wasn’t any harm. He wore his feelings on his sleeves. Even with the sunglasses, he was easy to read.

_Scott: Just be careful._

She looks up from her phone and rolls her eyes.

“What did you have in mind?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so finals is coming up. What better way to be productive than to write more of this story that I haven't touched in a year. Haha. Haha. Ha.

**Author's Note:**

> Events and timeline reworked to suite my need may not necessarily make any sense at all.  
> Criticism STRONGLY NEEDED: Mainly:  
> Is it too short? How are the descriptions? Easy to understand? Do I need more of anything, and what?  
> Also I'll probably edit things. Frequently.


End file.
